


Well, He's Walkin' Through the Clouds

by sweetcherrypop



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: M/M, axl has PTSD, god i really hurt my own feelings with this, includes graphic descriptions of self harm, there's a happy ending though don't worry, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:39:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcherrypop/pseuds/sweetcherrypop
Summary: The year is nineteen seventy-seven. The sun’s setting quickly, because it’s October, but that’s easy to ignore because the dimming evening is almost completely offset by the bright light from the fixture in Bill’s room, that Izzy has to shield his eyes against for a few seconds ‘cause he’s just tumbled in through the fucking window for a not-so-surprise visit. He didn’t inform Bill he was coming by today, specifically, but that wasn’t too unusual, so he doesn’t think this time will be any different from the others.Turns out there are a lot of things he doesn’t think.





	1. 1977

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XdIHxpx9VUc and it somehow resulted in this mess. Enjoooyyy

_Well she's walking through the clouds_  
With a circus mind that's running round  
Butterflies and zebras  
And moonbeams  
And fairytales  
That's all she ever thinks about  
Riding with the wind 

 

The year is nineteen seventy-seven. The sun’s setting quickly, because it’s October, but that’s easy to ignore because the dimming evening is almost completely offset by the bright light from the fixture in Bill’s room, that Izzy has to shield his eyes against for a few seconds ‘cause he’s just tumbled in through the fucking window for a not-so-surprise visit. He didn’t inform Bill he was coming by today, specifically, but that wasn’t too unusual, so he doesn’t think this time will be any different from the others.

Turns out there are a lot of things he doesn’t think. He gets to his feet, wondering where the hell his best friend is, ‘cause it’s not like the kid ever really goes anywhere except to Izzy’s house, and he definitely isn’t there right now. Minding his footsteps, Izzy creeps out of the room and into the hallway, which is fortunately free of other people-- God forbid he get caught breaking and entering by Bill’s parents. There’s a light on in the bathroom he notices, but the only thing worse than getting caught sneaking around their upstairs would be walking in on Mr. or Mrs. Bailey using the fucking bathroom, so he hangs back a bit. The door just happens to be slightly ajar, strangely enough, so Izzy looks.

He freezes, first, because despite the fact that it’s not _that_ surprising considering… everything, really, Izzy needs a moment to process and accept what he’s seeing. The second thing he does is softly step into the bathroom, instinctively trying to make himself as nonthreatening as humanly possible, he hasn’t the faintest clue how Bill will react to being walked in on right now, for all Izzy knows, he’s about to get the cussing out of a fucking lifetime, but what’s he supposed to do, leave? Pretend he never saw a thing? It wouldn’t work, irregardless of whatever’s about to go on now.

His best friend is sitting on the gritty, graying tile floor with a razor held between his thumb and index finger. It’s resting gently and nefariously on the edge of his thigh, glinting and glaring evilly as it sways back and forth in his slackened hold. It makes Izzy want to yell, but the deed has already been done: Neat, straight cuts of various length and depth stand out against his pale skin. Like always, he’s been careful, and all the blood that runs down his legs is caught by a paper towel right underneath. It’s folded double and it’s _fucking soaked._

Either Izzy’s discreet slinking around has served him well or Bill is really, really out of it, because his presence goes undetected for a full, incomprehensibly terrifying moment in which he stands, immobilized by shock and horror, and just _watches_ him cut himself. It’s the worst thing Izzy has ever had to witness. It kind of feels like he’s breaking into pieces, actually, like maybe he’s about to collapse and join the redhead on the floor. 

What he does, in reality, is he takes two or three panicky steps forward, purposely making noise this time, and enters the bathroom.

Bill doesn’t even stop. Ever so focused, he finishes making the last damning cut without turning to acknowledge Izzy. Tiny, bright beads of his blood rise to the surface one by one before joining together and spilling over in one perfect rivulet. The front and soft inner parts of his right thigh are on the way to being completely covered. Finally, slowly, Bill moves the razor away and lays it on the last unsoiled corner of the bloody paper towel, swiping it neatly across to clean it off and put it back in its plastic packaging, on top of a stack of many. Izzy can’t tell whether those ones have been used or not. He’s not sure why he cares. It’s hellish.

This is about the moment when he starts to cry. He feels like shit about it, too, since Bill is obviously in more pain than he is at the moment, and Izzy’s just fucking there. Mentally, he’s trying to figure out how to get his shit together (for the moment, anyway) and do or say something to help. Predictably, he’s not at all sure how. He blinks the tears out of his eyes as fast as he can, ‘cause he can sense he’s being stared at. Then he goes for the medicine cabinet.

He rifles through it, rapidly as possible without sacrificing efficiency. Regular Band-Aids would be of little help, he leaves those alone. Cotton balls, gauze pads, a small plastic bottle of antiseptic are removed from their dusty shelves and set down on the counter. The last thing Izzy pulls down is a half empty box of Kleenex, just in case, before cautiously kneeling beside Bill, who has maintained an apparent catatonic state through Izzy’s brief frenzy for medical supplies. He hasn’t said a word yet. Izzy’s worry intensifies, but he can’t think of a single thing to say for himself either, so he lets it alone and gets to work. He’s starting by checking for wounds that are still bleeding, of which there are several, and he takes a silent deep breath as he presses a gauze pad to a cut. The concern that the redhead might lash out or take off is a very real one, and he minds this with gentle touches and measured, steady movements. Nothing sudden, nothing that could accidentally surprise or scare him. It’s akin to attempting to befriend a skittish bunny.

Now that nothing’s actively bleeding anymore, Izzy decides that disinfectant should be the next order of business, and this is going to be the hard part. In fact, he considers skipping it altogether, since Bill’s in enough fucking pain already and Izzy would bet money that that razor was clean, but on second thought his conscience won’t allow it. He pours out a bit of the liquid and gets closer, still making sure his every action is visible, even moreso now. 

The antiseptic makes contact with Bills skin and he splinters the silence into sharp, microscopic shards with a choked sort of sob that makes Izzy’s heart ache with an intensity he’s never experienced before, and for a second he guiltily tries to stifle it but they’re both crying now, unhindered, heaving sobs that wrack their slight frames, and Izzy drops the stupid fucking gauze onto the unforgiving tile to fall into Bill’s lap and cling to him like he’s treasure, which he is. Arms around his waist, face buried in his chest. It’s returned wholeheartedly. Billy drapes a whole arm over Izzy’s back, rests his chin in his dark brown hair. They stay stuck like that for a while, an indefinite while. They are each others’ saving grace.

When Izzy withdraws and sits back on his heels, not because he really wants to let Bill go but because he’s pretty sure he’s leaning most of his weight directly on the wounds that he still hasn’t bandaged, damn it, he’s totally lost the ability to tell what time it is. Which, in the grand scheme of things, does not matter. He makes a halfhearted bid to smooth out the wrinkles in the crumpled tissue he holds. He raises it to Bill’s face, perfectly aware of the sheer riskiness of the act. He admires the teensy, beautiful freckles that reside on the bridge of his angel’s nose, he dabs at the tear tracks that glisten in the light, and he fucking _kisses_ Bill.

The world seems to freeze. Time is acting strangely, here in this dingy bathroom in this wretched house in this dreary suburban neighborhood of Lafayette, Indiana, and it’s another thing Izzy simply doesn’t quite know what to make of. He ignores it, for the time being, and remains in awe of the abject fear that closes in on his soul in the moment that precedes hesitant hands running through his hair, gently playing with the ends of it where it curled into disorganized waves and loose spirals, impossibly soft lips moving against his, and it’s the second instance in which Izzy feels himself breaking but it’s in a completely different way.

He prepares to move away then, very conscious of the fact that he still treads the thinnest of ice. But the fingers on the small of his back dig in tighter and Bill is licking at his lower lip and if Izzy was falling before, now he’s being _launched_ at full fucking speed. So he opens his mouth and allows himself to twirl a lock of shiny copper hair around one of his fingers as he leans forward, opens his mouth and returns the kiss with all he has to give. 

Now Izzy knows what it’s like to be a skydiver with no parachute. 

When they pull away for air, Bill is crying again.


	2. 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is nineteen eighty-five. It’s not dark yet, because it’s April and the sun is celebrating the end of its own lengthy absence by bathing Los Angeles in a celestial gold light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE THIS MAKES UP FOR THE FIRST PART

_When I'm sad, she comes to me  
With a thousand smiles she gives to me free  
It's alright, she said, it's alright  
Take anything you want from me  
Anything, anything  
Fly on, little wing_

The year is nineteen eighty-five. It’s not dark yet, because it’s April and the sun is celebrating the end of its own lengthy absence by bathing Los Angeles in a celestial gold light. Truthfully, that’s going to start annoying them soon, because their shitty studio apartment lacks air conditioning and they’re all partial to their worn out leather jackets and pants that cling to their skin for dear life. Right now, though, Izzy can brush off the fact that he’s beginning to sweat through his unbuttoned, rumpled white shirt. He’s just glad it’s not overcast and gloomy out anymore. Axl has been cycling wildly through lashing out at everyone in the vicinity and sobbing in his room for the past three days, and Izzy’s certain it’s got something to do with the constant rain and frigid fog and _gray_ that’s been plaguing the city recently. This morning they woke up to sunshine like they haven’t seen in at least two weeks and Axl is sleeping in his lap and his hair, fanned out across Izzy’s jeans and the couch, is just as radiant, as beautifully blinding as the sky is.

Slash, Steven and Duff have all gone out, supposedly to go to the skate park and “enjoy the nice day while it lasts, goddammit,” but Izzy’s not stupid, he knows as well as anybody that they’re just scared of Axl’s temper, trying to give him the widest berth they can, and one would _think_ this would be a good idea but in reality it makes Axl feel a whole lot fucking worse, because the honest recognition of the fact that even his best friends can’t handle being around him is far more than unpleasant. Izzy listens patiently, silently when Axl curses their names up and down before bursting into tears, abashedly swiping his palms across his eyes at first as if they don’t both know that the waterworks are going to start full force in the next half minute.

Izzy is stirred from his thoughts by Axl nuzzling into his side. He feels a sweet fluttering his chest, even after the decade and some years he’s known him, it never ceases to amaze Izzy that Axl chose him, that he stuck with him, through everything, all of the times they came within centimeters of splitting from each other, and here he is, comfortably curled up on him in the near stifling atmosphere of their pathetic excuse of a home. Izzy’s breath catches when he looks at the person he loves most, who crushes and saves him on a daily basis, who he considers his savior, and who is still blinking up at him sleepily. Currently, Izzy thinks, things are sort of okay.

Axl regains his bearings and sits up then, putting his arms around Izzy’s neck and completely missing the way he blushes. He should be used to this by now. It’s been just shy of eight years since that day on the cold green tile floor. Perhaps it’s a symptom of the fact that he’s been reflecting on their shared history for the past five to ten minutes, or maybe the source of the heat that rushes to his face is the undying flame he’s carried for Axl since they met.

His angel is wearing underwear and an oversized black shirt, nothing else-- he doesn’t have very much tolerance for the heat. Izzy takes in the sight, wondrous as ever. Against his own better judgment, soon enough, his gaze falls on the scars and stays there. Izzy traces them, wishing he could revisit the past and prevent them from ever being there. Most are white, whiter than the rest of his skin. The others, the deeper ones that should have gotten stitches but didn’t, are raised and ropy, a shade of faint pink that would be nothing short of lovely if it were on anything else.

He knows Axl dislikes seeing them, visual remnants of a nightmarish life that’s largely behind them now. It’s not gone entirely. It lives on in the way Axl still wakes up at two in the morning screaming and pleading for someone to _help_ or to _please don’t_ and in the way he flies off the handle when people call him certain things as a joke and they think he’s overreacting but Izzy knows that _lazy_ and _disturbed_ and _stupid_ are words that Axl can never take as casually as others can and he knows exactly why.

It’s _better_ now, though, it’s _good_ , and neither of them can deny that on the worst of days. Axl smiles freely now and whenever he does, he lights up the room and the room next to it too. Izzy catches him humming old blues songs when he’s cleaning or doing the dishes, even though Axl hates doing the fucking dishes, and sometimes they’ll stare at each other and Izzy will notice the absence of the darkness he always used to see in those captivating green eyes, and he wonders where it all went. He realizes that it has disappeared into peaceful sunsets spent with his lover, that it must’ve been absorbed by the California twilights and humid nights, the cool days when they explored the city together hand in hand and came back home exhausted and content.

Axl’s not so fragile anymore, Izzy thinks finally. He still treats his angel like he’s a precious thing, which he is, but _priceless_ is not the same as _breakable_ and he learns that every time Axl gets home from his record store job and shoves him against the wall to kiss him, hungrily and impatiently, grabbing Izzy’s hair and pulling on it ‘cause they’ve realized, they both love that, and of course Izzy yanks him closer and fumbles with his zippers or buttons or whatever the fuck Axl’s wearing on that particular occasion. All his actions say “take me, I’m yours,” because he is. _Always has been, always will be._

Now Izzy knows what it’s like to fall from the highest of heights and be safely caught.

They lean forward for a kiss at the same time, there on the couch in the spring sunlight, and Axl smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got really really invested in this story so I did a lil reflection thingy like a fucking nerd feel free to look at it https://docs.google.com/document/d/1OJAZNCOqFWSbKUmLlaGXAKRYsUY6DlqSo2QMPD8RQWw/edit?usp=sharing


End file.
